by C. C. Wiley
Drem sighed. “And what might that be?”
“All your money, which I lifted from your leather purse.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Now you understand why I want to run him through with his cane.”
“I would have done it simply because he wished you harm.”
* * *
Drem sat across from her. His satchel lay across his thighs. He kept it there to cover the growing tent in his leggings. Damn the thief. She still had his heart. And it hurt all the more to know he didn’t want it back. But what did the woman want?
Drem cleared his throat. “The cot is naught but rotted rope.”
She tilted her head. The blanket slid off her shoulders as she watched him with haunted eyes. “So I noticed. No matter. I have slept on worse.” She tested the ropes. Strands of dried hemp broke into dust. “It appears our host has been gone for some time.”
“Aye. The hay below is moldered and filled with rats.”
Her glance darted about the loft. “I can stomach many things, but not rats. They were everywhere in Harfleur.”
Drem grinned and vowed to remember that bit of information. He spread his arms and motioned her to come where it was safe.
Brigitte took a hesitant step closer. “Do you think that chair will hold us both?”
His grin fell and his arms dropped. Where did they go from here? Neither one of them knew whether they could trust anymore.
He rose and spread out his cloak on the floor. Grabbing her hand before she could turn away, he pulled her down with him. His back braced against the hearth, he enjoyed the feel of her, alive, in his lap.
Hooking his satchel, he dragged it closer. The boiled leather had kept the last crust of bread dry. The wineskin he’d bought from the innkeeper was still half full. “This will keep us until we reach Henry’s caravan of soldiers.”
He nudged the crust into Brigitte’s mouth. Then motioned to the wine. “’Tis safe.”
“Oui,” she whispered. “I know this in my heart.”
Drem took a sip from the bottle and handed it to her. The wine slid down his throat, warming his chest. “Tell me how we made love all night and then you left with another.”
She had a look about her that told him that her secrets were dear to her. Her shoulders hunched. “Why? ’Tis the question I keep asking myself. What do I have to offer?”
He rubbed her back, sliding his hand up to her neck. “You give me purpose, a will to survive. The passion to fight for what is mine. The reason to fight and return from battle.”
“Your king will never allow our union.”
“We will find a way.”
She lowered her head, “You do not understand. I am worse than no one.” Her hands twisted the blanket. “I am a bastard.” She stopped. “Merde. ’Tis why Alexandre wanted me. Tricked me into going with him to Calais.”
His hand stilled. “Your sire?”
“Oui.” She dropped her head into her hands. “According to Alexandre, I am one of many illegitimate children of the man my mother called Monsieur le Faire.”
“’Tis common among—”
“Nobility,” she finished.
Drem shifted but made certain she could not escape his embrace. “He wished to ransom you?”
“Given the opportunity, the master of the Nest would sell anyone.” She hunched further in the blanket. “Or murder them.”
“He thinks you dead.” Drem straightened, pulling her shoulders into his body until she rested against him. “’Tis a good thing for us. Easier to catch him with his guard down.”
“But why take Maman’s brooch?”
“Mayhap he thinks ’tis proof his information can be trusted.”
Drem stroked her neck. Slender and graceful. A noble’s neck. Illegitimate or not, there was a bigger reason for someone to care about her whereabouts.
“Do you recall how you came to Harfleur? Did the vermin speak of anyone?” If he had a name, he could take it to the brotherhood. The connection to the items in Dunstable Priory was becoming clearer.
“But of course. The Count of Nevers and the Duke of Burgundy were mentioned. He spoke of them as my sire and uncle.” She thought for a bit and added, “Uncles. He mentioned more than one uncle. But why does that matter? Maman never married. So as I said, I am no one.”
Chapter 27
Drem shook free of the fear that he might lose her after all. “We make quite the pair.”
Brigitte offered her first true smile since Alexandre had left her to die. “How so? Because I am a bastard thief and you are the king’s trusted knight?”
“Ah, but you are the most beautiful and skilled thief I have ever met.” He wiggled his brows. “Or made love to.”
“Then what could be better than that?”
Her laughter warmed his heart. He vowed to make her laugh more often. Another reason to come back alive from the battlefield.
He brought her hand to his lips. “I am the son of a man wanted for treason.” He kissed each knuckle with a skill learned from too many years with the king. “And you are a nobleman’s daughter.” He paused, a flash of memory freezing his thoughts. “Did you say the Count of Nevers?”
“Oui. Do you know him?”
“I heard he was at court not long ago. Trying to forge the king’s marriage agreement.”
“It didn’t go well?”
“I believe there was a disagreement between the brothers.” Drem lifted her hair, enjoying the way it cascaded through his fingers. “Your uncle, the duke, is a very powerful man. One who does not like to be crossed or disobeyed.”
“A pity. He is about to learn that a thief cares for it even less.”
Drem saw his passionate lady’s eyes sparkle and come to life. “We will speak no more about it tonight.” He lifted her from his lap and lay her on the cloak. Stretching out next to her, he cradled his head in his arms.
Rolling to her side, she slid the blanket from her shoulders and lay it across both of them. Her smile grew as she reached for him.
Drem breathed in deeply, praying she would not have a change of heart.
Brigitte closed the gap between them. “To conserve heat.”
“Oh, aye, ’tis a grand idea. A very smart one.” Rolling on his back, he wrapped his hands around her waist and pulled her to his chest. He caught the chemise with his fingers and dipped into her cleavage.
“You must rest. Regain your strength.” He stroked her neck, soothing the tension from aching muscles.
“I am much better now that you found me.” She stifled a long yawn. “You saved my life.”
“’Tis what a knight does.”
Fighting sleep, she closed her eyes. “Tell me of your childhood. Why did your king take you from your family?”
His fingers stilled.
She opened her eyes, propping her chin on the back of her hand. Shadows and regret had deepened his frown. “You do not wish to speak of it.” Shifting, she placed a kiss over his heart. “And I do not wish to cause you pain.”
His fingers returned their stroking. He drew patterns over her skin. Tiny tremors traveled through her body.
“Six years ago I was a lad of fifteen. I met Henry while my sister and I searched for lost lambs.” He paused, snuggling deeper under the blanket. “He was still Prince of Wales then. We battled side by side and then became friends.”
“You must miss your family.”
“Aye. Much has changed since the day they took me away.”
She rose, bracing on her arms. “They took you?”
“Conscription into the English army is common. Especially if one has a certain skill, as I did, with a longbow.” He nudged her shoulder. “Come back. You’re letting in the chill.”
Sadness for his lost youth washed over her. Memories could not replace family. That she understood.
“I saw my sister Terrwyn not long ago. She’s a grown, wedded woman now.”
“The one you sent Piers to?”
His nod rocked her body as s
he rested on top of him. The heat warmed her, made her sleepy as they talked.
“She’s one of four sisters.”
“I always wanted brothers and sisters. But it was not to be. I think Maman died of a broken heart when her Monsieur le Faire disappeared from our lives.”
“We’ll find out what happened to keep him away.”
“Merci, but that would not return Maman to me.”
“You’re right. It will not bring her back. We both have lost parents through betrayal. I cannot ignore my father’s actions. Nor can you ignore the actions of your father or the duke.”
Brigitte reflected that he had a point. But what could they do? “Alexandre has the swan. Without it, I can prove nothing.”
“The swan brooch,” Drem continued. “The one on the chain. Have you seen another like it?”
“Absolument. The man . . .”
“Your father, the count.”
Brigitte tried to let that sink in, but how could she call him father? “This Count of Nevers. Do you know his given name?”
“If memory serves, he is called Philip.”
“Mayhap if I was to see his face. I would know for certain.”
“’Tis certain he will join forces with the French.”
She frowned. “Then we would be on the other side. Enemies, n’est-ce pas?”
Drem cupped her chin. “I would be standing with King Henry. You will not be anywhere near the battleground. If I had any say in the matter, I would take you back to Harfleur.”
“Because you do not, I am telling you I will be by your side. I will never return to Harfleur.”
His jaw popped from clenching it so hard. She wished to smooth it away, but how else to stand firm on her decision to never return to Harfleur?
“And if I am ordered there?”
“Why borrow trouble we know nothing about? Mayhap we will reach Calais without a battle.”
“Perhaps. If King Charles concedes defeat and agrees to terms.” He moved his thumb over her bottom lip, stroking across it as if memorizing its shape. “How is it that you are able to read?”
Brigitte blinked at the question. “’Twas a skill my maman insisted I learn. She said her father demanded it of her.” She sat up. The blanket trailed after her. “’Tis not a common skill for a paramour, is it?”
“Or a thief.”
She grinned. “Alexandre always said, ‘information is power.’”
“My thoughts exactly.” He sat up with her, propping his wrist on one knee. The corner of the blanket barely covered his aroused member. Coiled hair sprinkled over his chest and strong legs glistened in the firelight. He looked like a powerful god. One who intended to wreak havoc on those who had wronged her.
Drem knelt before her. She rose, her loins wet with anticipation.
“Are you able to ride come morning?” He slid his fingers through her hair.
She could not turn from the beauty of his form, his strength. She ran a finger over his skin. The planes of his chest, muscles formed from years of use, were powerful. Yet under all that power beat a caring heart. She saw the tenderness he had for both man and beast. His word was his bond. She touched the satiny skin stretched over his hips, where his legs joined his body.
He would protect her and she would do her best to protect him. Whether he liked it or not.
She placed her hands on his shoulders. “I would ride with you to the end of the earth.”
Proving her point, she leaned into him until they were belly to belly. His chest rose and fell, as if preparing to dive into a pool. Then she touched his heavy flesh, moving against her mons. Its engorged head, velvet smooth, dripped nectar in anticipation. His heat made her core flare. Smoldering embers burst into flame like a forest fire.
The chemise slid off one shoulder, exposing her breast to his view. He reminded her of a little boy, looking at all the confections at the patisserie. And then he tasted her.
“Hmm.” His tongue danced, encircling her nipple.
The chemise fell, pooling at her knees. Cool air hit her damp skin. She arched her back, allowing him access to all he sought. “Oh,” she keened. Little tremors shook her body.
“There is much more we can do before we must leave our little castle.”
“Show me.” She gasped as he swirled his finger over the nub between her legs. “Teach me.”
“So wet and sweet.” Their thighs met. Rolling to his back, he carried her with him.
She spread her legs, straddling his hips, knees hugging him close.
A hunger, more powerful than she had felt when she had been on the streets, urged her on. She lifted her hips and sank onto his powerful rod. He filled her until she could take no more. And then, by God’s grace, her muscles contracted and released and took in more of him.
They rode together until they carried each other over the edge. Their voices mingled as they cried out their pleasure.
Collapsing, panting, they curled together. Drem’s cock nestled between her bottom cheeks. Brigitte snuggled her back against his chest and reveled in the passion they had shared. A pleasured exhaustion soon took over, turning her limbs to liquid. A warm breath caressed her neck. His arm draped over her waist.
Drawing the blanket over them, she closed her eyes and tried not to think of Drem entering the battlefield. She never wanted to lose him again. Turning, she lay her head on his chest and listened to the beating of his heart.
“I think I might love you,” she whispered.
* * *
Drem awoke to the sound of Aeron, standing below the loft, stamping his hooves.
“Christ’s bones, but the animal is a noisy one,” he muttered.
The little thatch cottage shook as if from thunder. He groaned. Another day of storms.
Rolling over, he untangled his deadened arm from Brigitte’s hair. The raven strands wound around his fingers. It shimmered, cascading in a waterfall from his hands.
She turned onto her back and smiled up at him. “Good morning.”
Ah, a happy riser. This bode well for them. He tasted her lips. She had the flavor of a woman well loved. His cock jumped at the thought of more to come.
“’Tis time we rise.”
A frown creased her brow. “I would that we stayed here.”
Lifting her hand, he kissed each finger. “But I must attend my king. Our king.”
She pursed her lips. “I don’t want to lose you.”
Ah, so that was what was turning her mood sour. Darrick’s warning of strapping a woman to his side returned. Guilt that he might leave her behind should he not return nipped at his conscience. He lay his palm over her flat, smooth belly. Would there be a swelling there soon, growing with life? Sweat ran down his back.
He cleared his throat to get out the words. “Nor I you.”
He rose and held out his hand. She reluctantly took it.
Thunder shook the building again. Bits of thatch rained down on their heads. Aeron whinnied, alerting them to danger.
Holding Brigitte’s hand, he gathered their clothing and dropped into the stable below.
“What is it?” she cried.
“’Tis the sound of many men. An army of men. Hurry.” His sword unsheathed, he led the way.
Chapter 28
An army of Frenchmen swarmed the meadows. Despite the wet, gray skies, their armor shone. Thousands of well-rested knights rode past. Infantry and wagons followed in their trail of mud.
Each horse flew its banner high. Their colors waved and fluttered like exotic birds. The tramping of hooves and the shaking of bridles usually brought a thrill running through his veins. But before he had been in the midst of it. Shouting orders, taking command of the archers.
Brigitte grabbed Drem’s arm, pulling on him to wait. The ground shook under their feet. She shut the door, barring him from leaving the cottage. “You are but one man.”
“I’m skilled and ready. This is what and who I am. Trust that I will return.”
“Your sword arm i
s no help to your king if you are dead.”
He waited, glowering, his arms folding across his chest. “Aye, but we must inform them that the nobles have decided to leave the warmth of their castles.”
“This we will do.” She reached out. His gauntlet-covered forearms twitched under her hands. “Without drawing attention.”
He took a deep breath. She was right. Charging after a horde of French soldiers would bring them to destruction. He touched her lips, running his thumb over the plump flesh.
There was more than the king to consider. He had seen the plunder and destruction. Those of the lower class and women were powerless against enraged knights. They would not consider whether she were friend or foe. They would take until she had nothing left. He could not allow it.
“You are right. We will wait and then blend in. If they are anything compared to English knights, they won’t know everyone who serves them.
Brigitte held up their blanket. “Put this under Aeron’s saddle.”
“Wise woman,” he said. “It’ll cover the markings.”
“Oui,” She passed him his cloak. “Turn them inside out. The weather cooperates. We pull our hoods low. Keep our faces hidden.” Concern knitted her brows. She nibbled her lip. “But how do we disguise that I ride with you?”
“We don’t,” he said. “If anyone questions . . . you are my leman.”
After making a few adjustments to his gambeson, he pulled on the leather jerkin. The white jupon given to every man under Henry’s command lay hidden at the bottom of his satchel. He prayed no one would ask to search it.
The carts rolling by changed the tone of the thunder. They needed to make their move.
Lifting Brigitte onto the saddle, he opened the door and led Aeron. “You’ll need to ride behind me. I need my sword arm free.”
A battalion of soldiers marched past. Their numbers were mixed, some men-at-arms, mounted and walking. Time for them to blend into the masses.
Drem sucked in a breath. A blue flag waved over their heads, leading the way. A dancing lion graced its surface. He felt Brigitte tense. Her chest slammed into his back.
“Steady,” he warned. Keeping pace with the soldiers, he rode up to the men and saluted.